The Conscience of the King
by lucifer ravana
Summary: After the successful revolution of '32, the Republic has been growing steadily corrupt. As their latest victim has two weeks to live, Courfeyrac is tasked with either saving a life or allowing the Republic to swallow up the man he loves. AU.
1. Prologue

(Obviously this fic is an AU. It will be updated depending on reviews.)

* * *

><p>Courfeyrac turned off his mind as soon as he stepped through the doors of the prison. This was a trip he made several times before in the past, and was finding it easier and easier to separate fact from fiction. How many of his stories featured some sort of cliched version of a prison? A damp, dark cell with a few bones resting in the corner. A small, confined space with the sound of dripping water somewhere overhead. The two lovers would meet, exchange passionate embraces, and one would promise the other that it would all be fine. That they would take care of everything. The ending was always happy because that's what people liked to read.<p>

There was no dripping water here, no skeletons, and there was still the pleasant rays of sunshine coming through the windows. Barred windows, yes, but still openings that served as a view toward freedom.

It was May 23, 1834, and the Republic brought about by the '32 revolution was still upon them.

Courfeyrac allowed himself to be patted down, silently handing over his hat. His visits were becoming commonplace enough that he was starting to forget the stench of the guards, how the thick hands were far from gentle, the suspicious looks he received due equally to his profession as a lawyer and who he had come to visit. Courfeyrac had prided himself on being able to take on some of the more dramatic cases, those that typically involved a scorned lover in a fit of passion, or cases that he deemed interesting as he envisioned his opening and closing arguments. The courtroom was his circus, and he wasn't inclined to feel any sort of disgrace for himself or his chosen profession due to the judgmental eye of the guard.

Satisfied with finding nothing on Courfeyrac that could detain him further, the guard led him down a long row of corridors and jail cells. Courfeyrac had since traversed this same route, ignoring the few catcalls from the thieves, the appeals of innocence from the murderers, and the silence from the truly innocent or truly guilty. Sometimes even he couldn't tell the difference.

The air started to feel colder as they went downstairs. It was a temperature that Courfeyrac worried about concerning the prisoners kept below. Political prisoners, even in these times, were kept in the recesses of the prisons. Unlike murderers, their victims could number in the dozens with one impassioned speech. Their words could convince others to commit atrocities, and they spoke out against the Republic, against those serving in the committees, and they were tried and found to be guilty not just of treason, but of stirring the masses. Attempted-murderers, all of them. And if they could turn their backs on their motherland, then they were clearly capable of anything.

Courfeyrac had only ever taken on the case of one political prisoner within his career. He had left that sort of business to the other members of his firm, and the trial had left a bad taste in his mouth. It reminded him of the monarchical regime and how they saw demons everywhere in the shadows, in the corners of the defendant's eyes, in his mannerisms, and in his speeches. All completely false, of course, but Courfeyrac had himself a harsh time of the trial, finding himself blocked at every turn.

Fairness and justice still had a long way to go when it came to matters of speaking out against the government.

Still, he had not forgotten that trial. How could he? It was one of the very, very few he had ever lost and one of the few he had ever felt he needed to win. Even now he was sending forth appeals as he visited the prisoner.

The guard tapped on one particular cell with his nightstick. Not that he really needed to, but the noise roused a few others in different cells and it gave the guard the feeling of power.

"You've a visitor."

Courfeyrac would have laughed were it any other time. The prisoner was already sitting on the cot, having moved himself into position when he heard the footfalls. Courfeyrac had been coming around since well before the trial, and it was easy to discern the man's footsteps from the heavier clunking sounds of the guard's boots. Very few political prisoners received visitors.

"I'll need some time alone," Courfeyrac said. And he would get that time alone since he was the prisoner's lawyer. He didn't take his eyes off of the man on the cot. He only heard the guard huff in annoyance.

"Ten minutes," he said. "Then I'll come back to make sure you're all right."

The guard left, tossing one last suspicious look back at Courfeyrac. Lawyers for political prisoners always seemed to have some trace of treason within them to find sympathy with the miscreants, he thought.

Small wonder why people didn't care to take their cases.

Courfeyrac waited until he could no longer hear the guard's footfalls before he reached into his pocket and took out a billfold. Extending his hand into the cell as far as the bars would allow him, he held it out to the prisoner.

And he watched, unaware that he was holding his breath.

He watched as Enjolras moved himself off the cot, as he came forward to take the money from Courfeyrac's hands. He did not limp, he did not stumble. His eyes were still as clear as the afternoon sky, and his head was held up. He still smiled easily, which made Courfeyrac's heart feel like it was being shredded.

"You're predictable only in your generosity, Courfeyrac," Enjolras said, his voice also sharp and clear. He couldn't very well say his speeches here, Courfeyrac knew. It had been Courfeyrac who had spoken for him for so long before, who had lost his voice as he tried to speak against the offenses to Enjolras' name. His friend, who had been run through the mud, who had suffered far worse at the hands of his beloved Republicans, still stood proudly within his cell, like the sunbeams that came in through the window. Enjolras wasn't allowed such a treat within his own cell, but he produced his own light, Courfeyrac felt. He was dirty, yes, but it was a shallow filth, one easily washed out. Instead, Enjolras appeared to be akin to a king on his throne, though Courfeyrac knew he would so hate the analogy. It held quite a few grains of truth. Majestic was not the adjective one would use when describing a prisoner, but it suited Enjolras. He would never bow his head to anyone, would never look to be the submissive, downtrodden prisoner. While others were quick to renounce, Enjolras was quicker still to hold fast.

This did him far too many favors with those who took his side, and far too few favors for those who wanted him out of the way. His unwillingness to play the game of the guilty vs. the innocent was something Courfeyrac had disagreed with him many times over the trial. This was doubly difficult since Courfeyrac knew his friend so well and to tell him to be something he wasn't felt almost like a betrayal, and he had so rarely disagreed with Enjolras about anything before in the past. Certainly never anything political.

"I'm trying to get you an appeal. If we can push it all back another week or two or even a month-" Courfeyrac started.

Enjolras shook his head. "There is no need. The verdict would be the same either way. Were they to give me another trial, it would be just as rigged."

"But still, we must try!"

"No, Courfeyrac."

He must be hearing things. His hands curled around the bars. "Enjolras, in two weeks time, you will be brought to that scaffold. Your hair will have been cut, your collar torn, and your head will be displayed as a warning to all!" Losing the trial had been a horrible punch to the gut to Courfeyrac, but hearing the sentence made him feel as though his own throat had been slit. His friend serving a life sentence in prison would have been preferable. There would be time for appeals, time to work within the government. But a death sentence, and in such a way, not only destroyed any chance for time-stalling tactics, it also showed Courfeyrac that the government well and truly wanted Enjolras dead.

This he knew could not happen. He knew it on a visceral level that he couldn't explain. He wasn't as much of an iconoclast as the others, but he did realize that the destruction of Enjolras could very well start a new snowball rolling down a hill. It was a strange idea, really, that one man could potentially raise quite a bit of havoc, especially with a severed head, but Enjolras had fans. He had people. He had groups that agreed with him even if they had never met him personally. He was one of the faces of the Republic, and his trial had generated quite a lot of attention.

Aside from the political aspect, Courfeyrac felt doubly focused on the more personal criteria. Saying that Enjolras was a friend to him was doing a severe injustice to their friendship. It was burying what felt like a lifelong commitment. Enjolras, he felt, was a part of him, just as he hoped he was a part of Enjolras. They connected in ways he could barely explain, and he was always masterful at putting the depth of his relationships into words. Enjolras was not his everything, but he played a part and had a role in everything. In the end, Courfeyrac could only admit that he had little desire to live in a world without the man, and Enjolras' words right now were stinging him far more than he dared to let on in this place.

"I'm aware of the sentence. I was there to hear it. But what is needed from you is your attention towards others. The other political prisoners-"

"To hell with them," Courfeyrac spat out and immediately regretted it. His knuckles were turning white around the bars. "Your trial was a sham, fine. Your appeals will be much the same, so be it. But if you think for one moment that I'll let you ascend that scaffold, that I'll stand idly by while your head is cut off-"

And then Courfeyrac stopped because Enjolras had placed his hands against Courfeyrac's, and his skin was so very warm, and it had been so long since last Courfeyrac felt Enjolras' touch. Enjolras' gaze, typically downcast in contemplation, now locked with Courfeyrac's.

"You've been willing to stand by me throughout all this time, Courfeyrac. You have trusted me. You have been willing to go where I led, and I have loved having you by my side. I would be lying if I said I didn't think this day would come. This Republic, it is not what we had desired to truly put in place, but the people will not be swayed through words this time around. Only by action will they make any movements. If my blood will set into place that which needs to be in order to truly free them, then I'll gladly let them have it all."

Courfeyrac tried to pull away, but Enjolras held tightly to his hands.

"Let me be the hero one last time."

There was a note of finality within Enjolras' voice, something that Courfeyrac never wanted to hear again because it sounded almost desperate. Pleading.

Courfeyrac held Enjolras' gaze as long as he could, wrestling with himself. Logically, he grasped the purpose of Enjolras' words, what his death would mean, what it could very well do to the whole of France. Enjolras and himself weren't the only ones aware of how corrupt the Republic had become. The straws were piling up on the camel's back, and the arrest of Enjolras was started to make the animal shake. His demise could very well be the final move.

But then what? They would take on this new Republic? They would instill something better? Maybe.

Enjolras would still be dead.

Courfeyrac's gaze turned angry. "A new Republic on top of your bones. You think that would appeal to me?"

Enjolras' expression turned sad. Courfeyrac hardened himself against it. He had to in order to keep his mind. "I think you have forgotten that everything has its price. If you're unwilling to pay, then do you really deserve such a Republic?"

"I'm willing to pay," Courfeyrac growled, harsher than he intended. "I paid ten-fold already. We lost Bahorel and Jehan in the barricades of '32. We had to see the corruption unfold around us that felt as though we've had another revolution stolen. We need to deal with corrupt deputies after their own power. The Republic has come and it is tainted, Enjolras! It is tainted and you are a damn fool if you think for one second that I'll allow them to claim you!"

He was panting after his speech, feeling both angry and reinvigorated. He had entered the prison feeling downcast, exhausted, and not looking forward to telling Enjolras that he was going to have to try another appeal since their last was overturned. Now, he felt like raging at the world and becoming that unstoppable force that he knew his friend once was in order to instate their new government. If Enjolras couldn't do it, he would pick up the slack.

Enjolras merely sighed. "You may not have that much luck, but you know that there's nothing I can do to stop you. Clearly you won't listen to reason."

"If reason means letting you die because of the foolishness and greed of others, then I have no need of reason!"

"Inquire too much and you could be sharing my cell."

"Then we'd die together, and I'll go knowing I've done all I could, and I will burn the executioner's ears with my words when I get up there!"

Enjolras gifted his friend with a long-suffering look. "You can be so very stubborn."

Courfeyrac grinned, it was slightly predatory and contained very little of his old humor. "When it comes to you, I can be many things. You're appealing to the wrong person when you wish to use logic, and there's no use in appealing to my heart as you're far more tangible to me than the elusive 'other people' we've fought so hard for. You will not be a sacrifice. No one should be a sacrifice." He lowered his voice, but spoke no less intensely for it. "I will see you out of here. I will see you free."

"Spoken like a true Republican," Enjolras admitted, though he didn't sound defeated at all in his argument. "You will do as you do and I shall wait. We'll see who wins out in the end, but it does seem that you've more the burden on your side."

"Says the man in the cage."

Enjolras scoffed. "Go out then and see the sun for me."

"I would, but they locked it down here," Courfeyrac responded, his voice softening still. He could have sworn he saw Enjolras blush, and he raised one of his friend's hands to his lips to kiss the knuckles. "My romantic flair makes me wish to vow your freedom from your somewhat errant knight."

"You're a paladin, Courfeyrac, not a knight. One day, you'll learn the difference."

"Or you can tell me the difference now."

Enjolras lightly stroked a finger over Courfeyrac's hand. "A knight is one who charges in. He thinks of little else but the command of the king. A paladin is the one who obeys the will of the light, no matter the cost."

"The cost is much too high."

"The cost is exactly right for a society."

"I do not much care for this society then," Courfeyrac said, and this time it was his tone that held a finality to it. He released Enjolras' hands as he heard the footsteps of the guard approaching.

Enjolras stepped back into the shadows of his cell.

Courfeyrac nodded to the guard. "My business here is done." He could not count this as a successful trip, but he left the prison feeling a little better about what he had to do next. While the sun shone down on him as he left the prison and he found himself once again in the company of other passers-by on the streets, he couldn't help but feel that he had left civilization behind him, still residing within a cell below the feet of society.


	2. Rising Dawn

**June 1832**

Courfeyrac had never been in a war before. He had read up on them. He had heard tales from veterans who came back from skirmishes missing a limb or two.

Right now, he was missing a hat. The loss wasn't remotely comparable, but he felt he could understand the stark fear of the ones who survived their brushes with death. The smell of gunsmoke hung heavy in the air and more than once, he had waved his hand, trying to clear the air so that he could breathe in something clean. He sat at the bottom of the barricade for now, told to take a breather for a few minutes.

He still felt choked, but going into the cafe wasn't an option for him. Bahorel was in there and Courfeyrac couldn't bring himself to see the body of his friend just yet. Aside from the sadness that came with loss, he knew the night wasn't yet over, wasn't even close to being over. Until they came about a victory, Courfeyrac could not look at Bahorel with any amount of pride. He knew he should have some for the fallen, but he was fighting for Bahorel's sake now. To fall upon him and weep, to show any weakness would be a disgrace to his friend.

They would have to succeed tonight or they would die. It was a simple matter, really. Courfeyrac was certain of their victory, certain that because they were fighting for the right cause, they would win. They had the supplies to keep going. They weren't alone upon the barricade. Others were still in place, and he could hear cannon shots if he concentrated hard enough and ignored the sounds of the others talking.

Ah, but what was the use of ignoring the others? The others gave him hope, gave him something more to strive for. To hear so many voices all around him, uncaring about the smoke-filled air, and still filled with exhilaration even after the first attack was more than enough to uplift Courfeyrac's spirits. He was excited, not for the attack that would surely come again, but for the victory that he knew would follow. It required a night or two of bloodshed, and then the king would step down. Or it would be a temporary concession with a monarchy that allowed for the beginnings of a republic. A compromise, he knew.

The idea made him crane his head a bit to look for Enjolras. His friend was talking with Combeferre in the doorway of the Musain, likely comparing notes on ammunition.

Enjolras wouldn't be open to a negotiation, but it wouldn't be his call to make. Courfeyrac wished it would be. He would rather have to go through a bit more hell in order to get a truly desired achievement rather than something half-assed. Should the king concede but keep his power, it would culminate into a longer battle, one not fought with guns but voices. One step forward, two steps back, until another explosion of action. Perhaps another few barricades. For Courfeyrac, he would accept all of nothing, preferably all. Nothing seemed too bleak a prospect. Watching Enjolras and Combeferre, however, made him feel more secure in their position. If something was going wrong, they'd be the first to know about it.

He caught Enjolras' gaze. His friend nodded and Courfeyrac smiled at him while quietly keeping the warm feeling spreading through his inside a secret. His feelings were not vague to him, but he took pleasure in describing them as thus. There was something glorious about the taboo, of denying himself that which he might be able to have should he make his move at the right time and moment. But at the same time, he knew he couldn't. To tear Enjolras' attentions away from the revolution would feel as though he was taking the man away from his proper mistress.

This wasn't to say he didn't know exactly what he felt for Enjolras. The man inspired a great deal of feelings from anyone. From raw, unending inspiration to his friends, to petty jealousy or fear from his enemies. For Courfeyrac, there was a slew of tenderness that he could easily feel for a blood-brother, but quite a gamut of emotions that he could never feel for any relation. If he was to sum up how he felt, it would be through a bond. He didn't want to think about Enjolras outside of his life in one way or another.

He knew very well what love felt like. He knew how it started with his mistresses, and he still loved them.

But he didn't cherish them. Their company was wonderful, but even he needed a short break now and again. With Enjolras, he could stay in the man's presence all day and not feel the slightest bit exhausted.

His emotions had been kept firmly in check for the past several weeks, and he wasn't used to limiting himself. When he felt something, the proper thing to do was act on that emotion. But again, he couldn't risk splintering Enjolras' affections, not when they were so close to action.

Instead, he kept himself perched nearby, able to act as protector, errand-runner, or just a shoulder to lean on, and no one said much of anything when he leaned in close to whisper in Enjolras' ear. Or when he perched his own elbow against Enjolras' shoulder to talk to another in a flippant manner. It was just his way of being, and he exploited it now in order to lay hands a bit more on his friend. His friend who never seemed to mind. It would make Courfeyrac suspicious if he didn't know Enjolras so well.

As it was, Courfeyrac busied himself with listening more to those around him. Two of the volunteers were playing cards. A few of them were talking amongst one another, cracking jokes here and there. The tension was high, but the only effect it had on the men and women within the cafe was a bit of nervous amusement. They were afraid, but they could still function. Sometimes their eyes would drift to one of the lieutenants. It was a look that Courfeyrac understood well. They were checking the body language, seeing if there was a reason to be reaching for the guns or being more wary, or if they were meant to sink into despair or achieve the opposite.

Thus far, everyone had been quite neutral.

But Courfeyrac, how he smiled at them when they chose to look to him for direction. He cracked his jokes not only to ease the tensions, but because he truly did find quite a bit amusing. He didn't care to think of this as arrogance, but as a certain lightness. Today was the day that everything came together. They would succeed upon this barricade. They would bring about a republic. And then he could make his final confessions to Enjolras. How would he truly react?

Where would he do it?

Enjolras had spoken of love before on the barricade, right after taking the life of another. It was a glorious speech, made all the more poignant to Courfeyrac because he was living the ideal right now. Just as Enjolras and the others fought for France, so did he fight for a victory not only for his country, but for his own heart. And how would it go if they were to fail? Ah well. He would confess his feelings to Enjolras should that come to it. Should no one come for them, should the people not rise, should the king not step down, it was no matter for certain aspects of Courfeyrac's personal well-being. He would still tell Enjolras.

He would confess it here upon the barricade, and then hopefully get himself a kiss before it was time to die.

That was ludicrously romantic, he knew, and he tried not to roll his eyes at himself. Really, he'd been spending far too much time at the theater or reading his horrible novels.

"No matter. I do pronounce it," he muttered to himself, casting his gaze downwards and smiling at the words.

Enjolras came over to Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac's grin widened as he lifted his head. "Why is it that whenever I'm with you, I tend to lose my hat?" He said by way of greeting.

"I'll buy you a new one after this. It's not your fault the others are jealous of your good taste," Enjolras answered with a grimness he seemed to have acquired for just the barricade. He moved up onto the rubble and Courfeyrac stood up to follow him. There were several perches for them to lean against or sit in order to be comfortable enough to aim their guns properly. Enjolras pressed his body against the furniture to peer out of a small hole. He wouldn't bring his head upwards unless he had to.

Courfeyrac, undeterred, went on. "So now Marius is the new chief. I should go to him for orders?"

"Hn."

"Oh, don't be like that. I'm not jealous of him! I mean, if I truly wanted to, I could blow us all up too."

Enjolras glanced back at him.

Courfeyrac gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. "You do realize that you choose your chiefs far too impulsively. The others are no longer looking to Marius as anything but another hand. It's good that your faith is undeterred, but even I have to say that he can be a bit of a dolt at times. Ah well. You will choose them, you will love them, and I will adore him for who he is, and maybe one day you'll explain to me all that you see. Or perhaps you need only spend a day or two in my apartment to witness the goings-on of our dear Pontmercy."

"I would have to share your bed then."

It was not a remark that would typically take Courfeyrac off-guard, but it did its job here and quieted him while he turned aside to cover up his reddening cheeks. The last thing he had been thinking about hadn't exactly been that virtuous and Enjolras had an uncanny ability to nip at the truth of the matter without realizing it.

Enjolras had long since turned back to regard the troops. How he could see through all that smoke, Courfeyrac wasn't sure. "They're waiting."

"For nothing good, I'd imagine."

"Good or bad, we've little choice but to wait with them. I'd rather not waste bullets in trying to pick them off from this distance. Even Feuilly can't get a clear shot."

"He can go up higher."

"He'd need better rifles for his men. Ones that can more accurately gauge wind ratio."

Courfeyrac puffed out some air. This was why he preferred fencing to guns. With fencing, one had little choice but to move, to act. With this sort of of stand-off, it allowed for the usage of traps and emotions to grow. "The men might start getting a little twitchy. Too much time between attacks might make them rethink their current positions."

"They'll remain," Enjolras said as he stepped back. "They'll remain because there is no other place to be."

Courfeyrac didn't feel like correcting Enjolras. There were plenty of other great places to be, but he understood the depth of the statement, and to get in-between Enjolras and his faith with mere flippancy would be a bit strange in their current circumstances. "Then I suppose we're stuck waiting."

They didn't wait for long.

Courfeyrac wasn't sure if the time just flew by or if the seconds truly were minimal. They were calm, sitting around, continuing to guard their positions, when Feuilly cried out a warning. Enjolras was already in place, directing others to their positions and ensuring that a gun was in everyone's hand before shifting back to his alcove. Courfeyrac stayed near him, the muzzle of his gun jutting out from the wreckage of the barricade.

He watched with one eye, the other shut in order to better his aim. His marksmanship wasn't as accurate as Enjolras', but it was enough to keep down the troops advancing closer to the barricade. He saw a man's head nearly explode as the bullet shot off the top of his scalp. Glancing at Enjolras, he watched as his friend hastily reloaded without taking his eyes off the upcoming troops.

Combeferre probably would have considered such a stoic expression necessary. Courfeyrac found Enjolras rather cathartic. He didn't care for the spillage of blood anymore than his friends, but when it became necessary, that was when he would rather put his faith behind the man who would do what he could in order to aid not only the republic, but also his friends. Courfeyrac could easily fall into step behind such a person, and he intended to be that man today as well. Every bullet he utilized was meant for someone who would do harm to another. He thought of Bahorel, struck down too early. He thought of Jehan, defiant to the last. He thought of those who were living most of all and how much he wanted to keep them that way.

There was constant shouting not from their side but from the Guardsmen. Directions were ordered out, and they marched onwards like toy soldiers. Whereas the ones on the barricade had the distinct advantage of height and guerrilla tactics.

The orders given at the barricade were sharp and succinct. "Aim to the left. Aim to the right." Wherever the crowd advancing was heaviest. "Hold your fire."

And Feuilly was perfectly in tune with Enjolras as the orders he gave were called out to his own men.

It was the fires that they constantly had to look out for, and Courfeyrac took it upon himself to call for those to strip a few of the dead members of the Guard in order to put out the fires upon the other side of the barricade.

He had leaned over too far at one point in order to stamp out the flames that landed too close to himself. His foot caught upon a rocking chair and he almost tilted over and onto the other side where death still awaited them, ready and eager to take the lives owed.

Enjolras abandoned his rifle to grab ahold of Courfeyrac's waistcoat and shirt. His strength was more than enough to tug the both of them back over the edge of the barricade and downwards just as another gunshot came close enough to Enjolras' head. Enjolras didn't flinch, but then why would he? His attention was clearly focused on Courfeyrac.

"Are you hit?" He demanded.

Courfeyrac wanted to laugh. "No, no, I'm fine," he hastened to reassure Enjolras, not doubting for a minute that his friend's thoughts were on Jehan and Bahorel rather than himself. He wasn't willing to become a corpse just yet. "Lost my footing."

Enjolras did a quick check all the same of Courfeyrac before moving back into his position, and the concern was horribly touching to Courfeyrac who also continued his maneuvers, this time with a bit more care. While it was lovely to know and be reminded of Enjolras' heart, he didn't want to cause any duress to the others. Not now.

Not ever, really.

When the shooting finally died down and Feuilly gave the all-clear, Enjolras shifted out of his alcove to meet with Combeferre once more. This time, Courfeyrac joined them.

"We can hold them off for a bit longer," Combeferre was saying, "but we need to try and figure out the shape of Paris. How many people are coming, how many reinforcements we'll be obtaining. Reconnaissance is necessary here if we're to keep this up, not to mention rationing of bullets."

Enjolras gave Combeferre his rifle. "I'll trade you for your two guns then. I'll handle the reconnaissance."

"I should go with you."

"No, let me," Courfeyrac jumped in. "I'm good for the others, for bringing up their spirits. If the news happens to be bad, I can deliver it in a way that wouldn't be too terrible. You're better at marskmanship than I am, so you should take my post in case we're under another attack."

Combeferre nodded and handed his two guns over to Enjolras. "At least for pistols we're fairly good on ammunition."

Enjolras checked to make sure they were loaded before putting them in his waistcoat. Courfeyrac handed over his own rifle for another gun of his own and a pocket full of ammunition. "Try not to get yourselves killed before we return. Hopefully it'll be with more people." His tone was light enough as he hid what was so dearly on his mind. It wasn't just for the reasons he gave that he desired to go along with Enjolras.

The two of them left the barricade, moving around the sides of the building and avoiding others. Between them, they knew the streets of Paris almost perfectly.

"If we're caught, they'll likely execute us on sight. I hate to say this, but if you've an opportunity either to run and escape or to shoot first, I suggest you take it," Enjolras said as they ducked into an alleyway.

"Run? Not without you."

"Now isn't the time for heroes."

"It's the perfect time for heroes," Courfeyrac said, pouting just a little. "Besides, you run faster than I do. Were we to scramble out, I'd be shot down first and you would feel terribly guilty. I'd rather keep you from feeling that. I heard it could cause a person's aim to shake."

Enjolras' lips twitched upwards in spite of himself. "Frivolous even now?"

"It's also the perfect time to be frivolous, if only in words and not actions." Courfeyrac's grip tightened on his gun. He doubted his aim but he didn't doubt his conviction. Two bullets was all the gun would allow to be fired before he would have to reload. Internally, he was already calculating the time it would take to do such a thing.

The reconnaissance took precious little time. Those that weren't roused were soon roused courtesy of Courfeyrac's rather loud upbraiding of the ones he knew were asleep. Enjolras may not have agreed with his methods, but he couldn't argue with his results.

"In the end, it is their choice," he said.

"Hmph," Courfeyrac replied. "This could be our last night as oppressed citizens. They can be awake for that!"

The problem was in their returning. The news they carried with them was both good and bad. People were stirring, more now that Courfeyrac had called for, but they had stirred before and found themselves gunned down. They would need a clearer path to the barricades, which slowed down Courfeyrac and Enjolras' route around the city in order to get a few people to safe havens so they could go the rest of the way.

Enjolras was unwilling to let them waltz into danger unarmed. Courfeyrac was unwilling to let them go back to bed. Between them, they had a hell of a time trying to get everyone to where they needed to be.

Three hours had passed. It was now four am by the time of Enjolras' watch, and when they rounded another corner to approach their rightful barricade, they found themselves facing three National Guardsmen.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac shot first and managed to take down two of the three. The third one fired off a shot which missed before whistling for back-up. The students were already racing down the street.

Courfeyrac had been right in that regard. He was slower than Enjolras. Enjolras solved the problem none too kindly by grabbing ahold of Courfeyrac's arm and forcibly pulling him this way and that.

"Do you even know where you're going?"

"A back way!"

Courfeyrac could only trust Enjolras to guide them. They could hear the footfalls and angry shouts of the Guardsmen not too far behind them. Another turn and they were faced with a door opening up to the back entrance of an apartment complex. Enjolras gave it a harsh kick and the door splintered around the doorknob and slammed against the wall. Enjolras pushed Courfeyrac inside. "Go! Up the stairs!"

Courfeyrac didn't need to be told twice. In moments of crisis, it was best to just keep one's mouth shut and obey. He raced up the stairs, cursing his body for running out of air. Would it have killed him to have had a pastry or two less and spent more time jogging through a few parks?

Probably.

He couldn't say he regretted anything.

Behind him, he could hear Enjolras piling up anything he could find behind the door, from an umbrella stand to an old couch that had been parked down in the lobby before he heard his friend racing up the stairs to join him.

They made it to the top floor when they heard the banging from below.

Enjolras took out a small pick from his hair and knelt down next to one of the apartment doors. Courfeyrac didn't ask about the pick. At this point, the sweat on his forehead was coming down in rivulets and not all of it was due to exertion. The noise below meant that they were going to break into the apartment building and they would be cornered.

Not exactly the way he wanted to go out.

The sound of the click was as loud as a gunshot and Courfeyrac jumped as Enjolras stood back up and opened up the apartment door.

The apartment was, unfortunately, occupied.

By the grace of God, however, the old couple who rented it out were asleep in the bedroom. Enjolras shuffled Courfeyrac inside and quietly shut the door, locking it again. "We have bought ourselves some time. No doubt they'll be knocking loudly on doors. The couple will be roused, and it will be on you to keep them quiet."

"Not through force, I hope!"

"That's up to you." And Enjolras was already moving, shifting the couch, the table, the chairs, anything that wasn't nailed down within the living area in front of the door.

Courfeyrac had little time to admire his friend's ability to make a barricade out of everything and anything. He went into the bedroom and wondered if he should knock. The sight of him would likely scare the couple, and then there was the fact that he was armed. He placed his gun behind his back so as to hide it from view.

"Ahem," he said. "I'm very very sorry to waken you."

The couple awoke slowly. The old woman blinked at him, and then her eyes widened.

"Please don't be alarmed," Courfeyrac said, bowing deeply. "My name is Courfeyrac. I'm just a humble student!"

The old man was already sitting up and moving his wife behind himself. "What do you want?"

"I'm afraid," he said as there was a scrape from the living area as Enjolras moved one of the bookshelves over to the door, "we're going to have to confiscate your apartment for the Republic. Thankfully, this occupancy will only be for a temporary time."

"We have a republic?"

"Hopefully soon! Which is why we need to use your place?"

The old man looked a little confused. His wife threw up her arms. "Oh for… Henri, they're republicans! This is a revolution!"

This apparently spurred something within the old man. "You'll not have our heads!"

"I assure you, we don't want your heads! You'll be compensated handsomely for the usage of your apartment." When words didn't work, Courfeyrac knew what would. "Look." He slowly reached into his pocket and withdrew a stack of bills. "For you. For your place. For your silence."

Their eyes lit up just as a pounding came at their front door.

All eyes darted to the bedroom door.

"Who is it?" Enjolras called out as he set to opening up the window.

"Open up your door, monsieur! There are two rebels hiding out within this building! We need to search your rooms."

"Oh, one moment, please. I'm quite indecent."

Courfeyrac gave the couple a smile. "Just relax. If we're captured, you can tell them that we coerced you. If you wouldn't mind." He gave the couple a last bow and headed out to join his friend while admiring the job Enjolras did on the front door. "Nice, but do you have a plan to get out?"

Enjolras was looking out the windows and soon Courfeyrac joined him.

"I was considering bed sheets. Unfortunately, that could be a bit dangerous."

Courfeyrac immediately saw why. They were close to their barricade. Very close. Unfortunately, right underneath them, they could see the National Guardsmen and the cannon they were moving to employ. "We'd be jumping down right into the nest of them."

Enjolras turned upwards to see how high the roof was from the window. "A risky venture. Don't believe we'd make it."

Several more gunshots ran through the air from the barricade. "Any way we can make contact with them?" Courfeyrac asked. "Perhaps they could clear us a path?"

Enjolras shook his head. "The guardsmen below us are too far away from them. They wouldn't be able to see."

"Then what do you propose we do?"

"A moment…"

Courfeyrac would have loved to give Enjolras as much time as he needed. Truly, he would have granted Enjolras hours upon hours to think, and him to watch his friend contemplate matters. The ones who did take issue with time were the National Guardsmen who had set to pounding upon the door once again with renewed vigor. Enjolras didn't answer them this time.

Instead, he took out Combeferre's guns.

"Please don't tell me we're just going to dive down into the throng of people and start shooting our way out."

"No. We're just going to pick them off from up here."

In a way, this made a small amount of sense to Courfeyrac. They would be kept hidden by the windows, able to duck and cover as much as they wanted when they had to reload. At the same time, it didn't help them find a way out of their current situation. "What about the ones outside the door?"

"It will take them awhile to break through. I trust you've a good rapport already with the occupants?"

"Minus quite a few francs, yes."

"Then they will be quick to hide you should the guardsmen break inside. I'll make an ideal distraction."

Courfeyrac's blood ran cold. "If they're going to execute you, do you really think I'd stand back and let that happen?"

"Ah, good. Then I suppose we can both hide underneath the couch should they break in."

"Now who's being flippant?" Courfeyrac muttered but Enjolras was already picking shooting into the crowd of guardsmen. It wasn't long until the bullets started flying up towards the window, and Courfeyrac had to time his own movements as he took to the second window in the room.

The pounding of the door was getting harder. They didn't have a battering ram, so it was a constant kicking that thrummed in Courfeyrac's brain.

Here was where he'd meet his maker. Here, in this dingy apartment room, shooting into a group of the opposition because they had to do something. And doing something was better than just waiting for the Guardsmen to break inside the apartment.

He could hear the door splinter, and he looked at Enjolras. Enjolras, who wasn't sweating at all. Enjolras, cool and composed still as he meticulously reloaded and aimed properly despite the pounding door. Enjolras, purposeful in his faith. So Courfeyrac allowed his own faith to be placed upon his friend. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and reloaded his gun. His aim was less masterful, but his second bullet always hit its mark. He could feel the small pile of bullets within his pocket gradually decreasing. The lightness brought a sense of dismal energy to him.

It was the end.

And yet, he couldn't be unhappy. For what a way to go than within a pincer move. He smiled but didn't laugh, fearful that his laugh would sound hysterical. But when Enjolras lay a hand on his arm, he stilled himself.

"They're coming."

He thought Enjolras meant the National Guard.

He didn't. Enjolras nodded out the window and Courfeyrac suddenly realized that the Guardsmen had ceased firing at the windows or the barricade. The canon had gone silent. Slowly, he peeked his head out the window.

Behind the National Guardsmen, there was a swarm of people who wore no uniforms, though quite a few of them had on tricolor sashes. They held guns, from pistols to rifles, and a few carried bayonets, but none of them were fighting. Instead, there was talking.

And as though coming to a common consensus, one of the generals of the Guard called for a command to retreat.

The pounding of the front door ceased, and the weight of its silence hung hard as Courfeyrac sank down against the wall, slumping with exhaustion and a passive merriment that was threatening to bubble over. All of the night's events swept through his bones and he finally allowed himself that laugh. It felt as though his joy would last forever, or that he would dissolve into slumber shortly.

Enjolras knelt down beside him. "Are you all right?"

And then there was gold within Courfeyrac's hand as he gripped Enjolras' hair tightly enough to pull the other man closer to him. He couldn't keep anything back anymore, not any ounce of feeling, not after all they had just been through. He had felt his end far too many times tonight.

He wanted to feel the beginning of something.

With gunshots ringing overhead accompanied with the celebratory shouts of the revolutionaries, Courfeyrac's lips met Enjolras' and he tasted both hope and sweat. One was a reminder of all that he loved, and the other was a reminder that his love had taken a wholly human form. A human form that returned Courfeyrac's act with his own. Hands touched Courfeyrac's shoulders, not to push away, but to hold onto as though balance was such a precious thing.

The gunshots started to sound like fireworks to Courfeyrac as he felt the weight of the world and his own heart rise off of him.

* * *

><p><strong>June 1834 - 14 Days Before Execution.<strong>

Combeferre avoided putting his cup down on Courfeyrac's papers. He had invited his friend outside to eat rather than spend the day cooped up in Courfeyrac's office. Originally, he had hoped the sun and fresh air would brighten their moods. Now, he felt as though everything was mocking them. Courfeyrac kept his head down, barely noticing either the food in front of him or the beauty of the waitress.

What little Combeferre knew about law had nothing to do with the trials of the Republicans that had been coming up again and again. At first, he barely noticed the numbers, so commited had he been toward his new occupation. He was the youngest intern to work directly underneath the Deputy of the Department of Education. With his drive and creativity, he knew it was just a matter of time until he was elected into filling a deputy position. The only thing holding him back was his own perfectionism. He wanted to be perfectly aware of all of what the job would entail before stepping into that position.

"You've barely said anything about the meeting between you and Enjolras," Combeferre said, his cooling mug of coffee between his hands, his elbows on the table.

Courfeyrac looked up. "There's little to report. I told him of our situation. He told me to let it be."

"And you won't."

"Of course I won't." Courfeyrac seemed indignant.

Combeferre nodded. "I know he can be persuasive."

"Not with this." He gestured to the papers before him. "I've been going through his trial transcripts. I'm finding nothing, Combeferre. Nothing. Not a scrap of evidence that I didn't try to use during the trial. I didn't mess up anywhere, and that's my problem. It's obvious that the jury was bribed, but I can't prove that. I can't prove it and he's going to die because of my competency! What sort of world is that? Is that the ideal? He neglected to mention that in any of his speeches."

Combeferre shook his head. "Don't be angry with him."

"I'm not, gods, I'm not." Courfeyrac ran a hand through his curls, tugging on a few of them as though he could stimulate his brain that way. "I wish he wasn't so confident. I wish he wasn't so sure. It's harder to say no to him, especially to his face. And he's accepted it all."

Combeferre understood where Courfeyrac was coming from all too well. Enjolras' calm demeanor could work both ways. Enjolras' belief and faith that carried them through so much could also be used against him. If he felt something was absolutely necessary, he would see it done. No negotiations allowed. It was a brilliant character trait that kept his friend noble and pure, but it also ensured that he'd walk to the scaffold without a second thought. "He isn't naive. I'm inclined to believe that the tide will change with the spillage of his blood, but I'm not willing to see it done."

"Nor am I. And that is where he and I disagree. He would rather face the blade than stay around and watch things change."

"Could they?"

"What?"

"Could they change without his blood?" It wasn't a question he should pose to Courfeyrac, not now at any rate. Combeferre had no desire to see Enjolras die, but he also knew that Enjolras wouldn't accept anything else without an alternative. "If there was a sign or some way of knowing that people would be moving against the Republic, or at least the corruption of it all, you would have something else to bring to him."

"Hell if I know what people are thinking," Courfeyrac growled. "I care more about what one person is thinking. I couldn't change the minds of the jury. How can I change his?"

"Changing a jury's mind would be easier."

"Precisely my point!"

"But not if they've been bought off, Courfeyrac. At that point, it's pointless to even try. The appeals won't help get him an innocent verdict any faster."

"It's not about the verdict." Courfeyrac tapped the papers with his pen. "It's about buying some time. I need time to..to.."

"To what? Get him off? He won't be found innocent. Unless you plan on keeping him in prison until the people rise up to overthrow the government and grant him a pardon."

"Do you think that's possible?"

"Anything is possible. But he could end up rotting in that prison for years. The return of a monarchy could even be possible and they may even give him a royal pardon."

Courfeyrac tossed aside his pen in a short flurry of dramatics. "Then what am I to do? Am I wasting my time with this? I can't afford to think like that! I can't afford to be doing anything else! I need to find out what I can do to help him! I need to get him out of there and appeals are all I've been taught!"

Combeferre, used to Courfeyrac's displays, stood up and retrieved his friend's pen. "Did you give him money?"

A nod.

"I'll give you more to give to him." Combeferre was still more than a little bitter over not being able to see his friend. The last time he had seen Enjolras had been at the end of the trial after the sentence was read. He was able to reach across to touch Enjolras' hand before his friend was taken out.

Courfeyrac just nodded. He could easily handle giving Enjolras as much as his friend needed or wanted to ensure his personal safety while behind bars, but at the same time, he knew that this was the only way Combeferre had of communicating with his friend. He wasn't about to deprive Combeferre or anything. "Thank you," was all he said as Combeferre handed him back his pen.

"People fear him," Combeferre said. "They fear his influence. If you press too hard, they'll start to fear you too."

"Enjolras had the same fears. I don't know why you two persist in telling me these things. I'm well aware of the potential consequences. I don't much care at all about them. I told Enjolras that if we end up sharing a cell, so be it. I'd rather share a cell then live constantly in this nightmare of a government."

This was a common trope of their conversations. Inevitably, it all led back to the current regime. Courfeyrac knew that while it was marginally better than the monarchy, there was still a lot more to answer for, and the room for improvement was growing by the day. All the while, personal freedoms were gradually being stifled, and Combeferre had long since been in the thick of it regarding the education of the masses. He had argued against establishing privatized institutions that catered solely to the upper class or those that could afford them, largely due to how unequal the learning distribution would be. Courfeyrac couldn't claim to know all the details, but it did come down to the privatized institutions being offered more classes and options than in free institutions.

Courfeyrac hadn't kept as much of an eye on the current government as he could have throughout the years. He focused more on family commitments, his relationship with Enjolras, and, of course, his occupation. One made him rich in terms of family, one made him rich in spirit, and other rich in monetary value. None of it helped him now.

"How's your wife?"

"Still pregnant," Courfeyrac said without the note of gloating that usually accompanied such a proclamation.

"I meant, is she aware of how much of yourself you're putting into this case?"

"Yes." It hadn't been a bane to her, though. She stayed by his side throughout the trial process, understanding as he took time away from being with her to studying his notes. Her presence had been a life saver to him as she calmly waited in the wings, and had been there to console him after the trial. "She knows it was all rigged. Now I have two weeks and she understands the need for me to work as hard as possible on the appeals."

"You're fortunate in finding her."

Courfeyrac did note the small touch of jealousy in his friend's voice, but he was good enough to ignore it. Combeferre didn't need it acknowledged. Courfeyrac even understood it. It was not his wife that Combeferre desired, but the other half of his arrangement. It was, perhaps, a touch unfair that Courfeyrac achieved the best of both worlds in terms of relationships, but he chalked that up to careful handlings of both his lovers, and the understanding that one was just a touch more precious to him than the other. Not that he could ever tell his wife what was within his heart. Had Enjolras been born a woman, he would have no need to have another.

"Finding her and losing that which I value the most in this world." He was morose as he gathered his papers. "This has not been a pleasant lunch," he added.

"You're an unpleasant companion," Combeferre countered, with a touch of his old humor. "Enjolras still has faith in you. He wouldn't have told you to let it go if he thought you could succeed."

"That's what hurts the most."

Esmeralda was a beautiful woman with lengthy wavy blonde hair and a graceful charm that had first caught Courfeyrac's eye rather than her appearance. Normally slender, she had herself an enormous stomach now that she was in her seventh month of pregnancy. The doctor had told her that she should stay off her feet, but she was still there and waiting for her husband to come through the door and embracing him after a long day of work.

It was just another reason why Courfeyrac loved her. He embraced her after tossing down his papers onto the front table.

During his life, he had always thought that when he married, he would spend all of his money on her, purchasing her a lavish household, filling it with the staff she wanted, and giving her complete control. He wasn't able to fulfill all of his old promises as he had purchased a second home.

Enjolras had protested and since the initial purchase, he insisted on paying for the rent so Courfeyrac could handle the monetary funds of his wife and soon-to-be child. Courfeyrac didn't care for this as he desired to take care of both his lovers, but Enjolras' stony look kept him quiet. While his lover was notorious in his own clemency, patience, and willingness to go along with what Courfeyrac wanted, he did have his own personal limits. He was polite and civil to Esmeralda when they met, and did not selfishly vie for Courfeyrac's attentions, but nor was he expected to make allowances for her. Which included having to handle Courfeyrac's urge to take care of them both.

"I don't wish to be in the same estimation as her," Enjolras had said, and left it at that. Courfeyrac respected his wishes.

Esmeralda kissed his cheek. "How was it?"

"Terrible." This earned him another kiss.

"Are you still refusing cases?"

"Until he's out of prison." Or dead, Courfeyrac thought, and hated himself for giving in to the pessimism.

"He has you to represent him. I'm sure you'll do well." Her own optimism shone through in her voice, but he caught her eyes as they darted to the paperwork. His heart sank just a little. It was unfair to her, he knew, especially when she was pregnant. His attentions ought to be on her, on the soon to be living. But his heart wouldn't allow him to release Enjolras, and truthfully, he had no desire to give up on him. Enjolras was his. Had been his since even before their first kiss. It was terrible to think that he would give up all that he had in order to just ensure Enjolras' safety.

And yet, he could very well do so. He wouldn't be happy about it. He would lose sleep. He would feel horrendous. But he would still do it.

There was a level of trust, a depth of feeling that could never be breached by anyone else. They had fought two wars together, upended two regimes of governments. There was a bond that no one else came close to between them, and the feeling of the looming deadline coming up that threatened to sever that bond made him feel sick.

"Another late night then?" What she meant was another night that she would be sleeping alone.

"I'll try not to stay up too late," he said, trying to console her. She gave him a polite smile.

"I hope you won't think me too harsh, but I do look forward to you sleeping by my side again."

"Not harsh. Lonely, yes, and I understand."

She touched a finger to his lips. "Don't apologize. I understand. You'll join me when you're ready. But until he's gone, I know you won't be able to let him go."

He thought of Enjolras, alone in prison. He thought of himself, alone in his study. And his wife, alone in her bed. He thought of Combeferre and the conversation they had.

He wondered if he had already lost everything without realizing it.

She went to bed and he retired to his study. While he had tried to keep to his promise in going to bed at a reasonable hour, he ended up burning down the oil in his lamp and falling asleep on a bed of papers.

The verdict of 'guilty' still rang within his head and he dreamed of sneering faces and guillotines.


	3. Acquiesce

**July 1832**

The clean up at the barricades was tedious work. Amidst the celebrations, the lieutenants worked around the volunteers. Courfeyrac couldn't resist having a drink. His hands were dirty around the stem of the glass. Sweat rolled down his back from all the heavy lifting that went into breaking down their barricade. He found himself hard pressed to care at all about the labor even though the barricade had gone up so speedily and now it felt like a crime it take it all down.

"It should stand as a monument here to our victory!" He cried amidst the cheering throng.

He kept one eye on Enjolras who had taken Combeferre off to meet with two other chiefs of different barricades. They spoke quietly within the Corinthe, and while Enjolras looked a little bit more relaxed, Courfeyrac could easily note the narrowing of eyes and a slight frown. He trusted that Enjolras and Combeferre would tell them if the revolution had a few loopholes within it. Or if the king had merely called for a peacefire of sorts just to get the barricades down and the night stabilized.

But neither Enjolras nor Combeferre halted the celebrations when they came out of the cafe. Combeferre went off to speak to Joly to see to the wounded and Enjolras joined the others in dismantling the barricade.

"Is everything in place?" Courfeyrac asked, moving closer to Enjolras. He hadn't forgotten the kiss, given in the heat of triumph and battle, but he was certain that the intimacy wasn't a byproduct of desperation or a need to affirm his existence.

"For now, yes. From the reports, it seems a good many brave citizens advanced onto the Palais while the National Guard were focused on the barricades. I dislike to think of this as mob rule, but very few lives were lost. Louis-Philippe chose to step down rather than risk any more lives, including his own. He was placed under arrest for now."

"On what charge?"

"Treason, I believe." Enjolras frowned again. "It was necessary, I think. I believe the ones arresting him did so for his own safety. A large crowd can be dangerous when it is led without forethought. He stepped down, which surprised many. But given enough time in-between and they would likely have seized him by the throat. No, better that he should be away."

"Would you call for exile?" Courfeyrac downed his champagne in a steady gulp.

"Exile has its way of coming back to haunt us. I would call for a dismantling of the monarchy first. Let him see the power of the Republic before him, but let him understand that this is what the people want. If he truly loves France, he ought to do her bidding now when he lacks the power to bring her to her knees."

Courfeyrac laughed. "You have too much faith." Still, he couldn't resist placing a hand on Enjolras' shoulder and leaning closer. "You remember what we did, don't you?"

Enjolras gave him a long unreadable look, making Courfeyrac wish he was Combeferre in his ability to decipher what went on within Enjolras' head. "I do."

"I wanted to apologize." Courfeyrac felt his heart speed up at the sight of Enjolras almost looking crestfallen.

"It is of little consequence."

"It was of great consequence! So much so that I feel I must apologize because I'll be doing it again later." The words were whispered, though Courfeyrac longed to exclaim them with all the joy he was capable of feeling at the moment. His hand tightened on Enjolras' shoulder, and he felt himself grow happier at the smile that graced Enjolras' features.

It was small, contained, but very plain to see.

"I look forward to it."

Courfeyrac needed no further invitation.

The days that followed passed like a blur. There were aspects of it that were blissful. He spent his nights with Enjolras, dining with him and talking. He couldn't deny that there was a small part of him that feared the blond fading away. He attributed this to his being a natural iconoclast. In his mind, Enjolras represented that which they accomplished. The revolution was, for all intents and purposes, over. A government had been overthrown, a new one was to take its place. Amidst the whirlwind of temporary officials and the redesigning of a new constitution of laws, the need for speeches and pushing people further into action was nearing its logical conclusion.

Sometimes Courfeyrac had to grasp ahold of Enjolras to convince him that his friend still remained. That he hadn't flown back up into the heavens to report his success to the other archangels. Or that Patria herself hadn't come down to pull her prized son to her and made off with him. It was rather selfish, really, but he just couldn't bear the thought of sharing the one who agreed so easily to be his.

Enjolras, however, remained a steadfast presence within his life. Sometimes, all too steadfast.

Such as the fact that now, more than ever, they would have to cram for the bar and attend classes. Enjolras, normally so quiet and so thoughtful, would speak to Courfeyrac throughout their journey to the Sorbonne of the new developments of the growing Republic. While Courfeyrac shared his enthusiasm, he could not bring himself to be so loquacious that early in the morning.

He started to learn that this was merely Enjolras' way of getting him to go to the wretched classes. Courfeyrac dubbed it a personal victory when he could push Enjolras out of his shell, and he would follow wherever Enjolras led him whenever Enjolras was more than responsive.

Of course, after getting to classes, Enjolras would retreat back into his natural self and stay the course of graceful quiet until classes were over.

Save for the times when Courfeyrac could provoke him into speech. Due to Courfeyrac tending to sit as close to Enjolras as he dared throughout class, this was easy enough. His friend was still inclined to go into periods of distance, withdrawing to his abstract world whenever a lecture got too frustrating or a case study too dry.

Of course, now, more than ever, they had to pay attention to what was changing in the laws. The bar exams would be updated to go over the new regulations.

Courfeyrac didn't worry about Enjolras keeping up, and in order to keep Enjolras' mind on him, he had to prove to Enjolras that he could hold pace. The extra study was worth it when he found his arms full of Enjolras at night.

They had yet to fully consumate their desires, but Courfeyrac was fine with waiting and Enjolras indulged him readily enough with other intimacies. At least now Courfeyrac knew that the revolution and the republic were not the main facets on Enjolras' mind. They had succeeded, which allowed his lover to push his dedications elsewhere.

Most of which ended up around Courfeyrac's neck.

He took no pains to hide the marks and when asked, he would respond with a roguish wink and a smile that clearly said 'wouldn't you like to know?'

In fact, the only one who did know was Combeferre, mainly because Enjolras told him.

"Tell me you didn't," Courfeyrac pleaded when Enjolras broke this news to him over dinner.

"I would hate to lie."

Courfeyrac didn't complain about the irreverence. That was his fault. "Do you think he'll approve?"

"I hope so. His approval means far more to me than my father's."

There was a subject Courfeyrac wasn't inclined to speed heavily into, nor was he about to state any of his personal affairs to his own family. Bad enough they knew him to be a Republican and involved with the affairs of the barricades. He could always hold the fact that they had won and it would be best to be seen now in polite company with distinct political opinions. But the world had not turned topsy-turvy enough for them to approve of a tryst with another man.

No matter how much Courfeyrac adored him.

"And if he comes after me?"

"I'm sure he will. But you're adept at ducking."

"Not dodging bullets!"

At Courfeyrac's genuine distress, Enjolras placed a hand over his lover's. "Have faith in Combeferre. He's a good friend. One who seeks advancement not just in physical aspects of human progress, but in emotional ties as well."

Courfeyrac wasn't so keen to have so much trust in this idea, but he believed in Enjolras and it would be a terrible thing to see his friend suffer due to his anxiety.

As it turned out, Combeferre came to see him, and he was as short and curt as he ever was with Grantaire. "You're a good friend," he started out by saying.

"So are you! And may I say, you are looking just dashing today!" It wasn't just a placating exclamation. Combeferre had worked his way up quickly, foregoing his extracurricular studies to pursue a career in the department for education. He was already working for, and sponsoring, a potential head of the department come the elections. Combeferre had it in mind to become a deputy, and after that, who knows where else he would go? Even he seemed somewhat overwhelmed by all the possibilities opened to him.

Too much choice could harm people, he had once stated to Enjolras and Courfeyrac in the Musain. "If you give them so many options, they'll become confused. They'll want to go everywhere at once, take on more than they could handle, and burn out all the faster. It's good to start them off as early as possible when it comes to education, particularly when it means handling the pressure that could come from having options."

At the time, it felt like a pipe dream. Nowadays, Courfeyrac could easily see where Combeferre had been coming from.

Though right now, Combeferre had only one matter to speak on, and it was a matter that Courfeyrac had known was coming. "Enjolras told me about the two of you. While I am happy for you both that you found someone to be with in such a way, I do have to say that Enjolras is a dear friend of mine. As are you, of course, but you have more experience in this regard. So it is to you that I will have to say that should he come to harm by your hand or word, you will have to answer to me."

Courfeyrac blinked. "Is that a threat?"

Combeferre contemplated his past words for a scant three seconds. "Yes. Yes, it is."

He could, of course, debate with Combeferre and tell him that Combeferre didn't look like he could harm a paper bag, but the only weapon he ever really had nearby was his sword in one of his canes, and even that he only took out for special occasions. The outlines of Combeferre's jacket told Courfeyrac that even though the times had changed and they were infinitely more peaceful, his dear friend hadn't ceased carrying around his twin pistols.

And what sort of fool brought a sword to a gun fight?

"I wouldn't dream of hurting him. Ever. This relationship is primarily dictated by him, of course. I enjoy seeing him feel his way around me." And on me, Courfeyrac added mentally.

Combeferre nodded. "I thought you would say that. That is, I hoped you would. In your own way, you're good for one another. Discretion is still key."

"We're not like you, Combeferre," Courfeyrac reassured him. "Our opportunities aren't so wide. We need to get by on reputation. You could have your fun with a sheep if you were so inclined and people would still come to you due to your knowledge."

Combeferre scowled at the analogy. "Hopefully the laws will change and people will become more accepting. But do not expect Rome to change overnight. Guard him well, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac didn't quite know what Combeferre meant by that. Not until a month after the revolution when the former king was placed on trial and sentenced to death. Enjolras didn't take the news well but he took it silently, which meant Courfeyrac had to pry him out of his shell in order to figure out what he was feeling.

"This is not what you wanted, I know," he started, while holding Enjolras around the waist as they lay in bed. He was in cotton trousers and Enjolras in a nightshirt. Courfeyrac quietly longed for both sets of attire to find their way to the floor, but he knew now wasn't the time to suggest such a thing. "Do you fear that this starts a precedent?"

"A precedent? No. I have more faith in the Republic than that. I suppose it's just something I'm not accustomed to. It is fear that makes them act in such a way." Enjolras' fingers touched Courfeyrac's arm so lightly that they tickled.

"Will we be attending his execution?"

"We must."

Courfeyrac accepted that without question. Throughout the entire month of subdued celebration on the part of the students, there was also the feeling of merriment that never left him. He felt that changing now and it took him awhile to fall asleep even through Enjolras curled up around him.

The man was a damn octopus in bed.

Two days later came the execution and Courfeyrac stumbled about, trying to find something appropriate to wear and coming up empty. In despair, he had turned to Enjolras and was handed a black attire.

"It makes me look so slim," he muttered as he changed.

The entire scene felt distinctly surreal. Here was the cart, the rickety old thing that Courfeyrac was sure was made to look run down. The last time they had executed a king, the cart had been, well, not majestic, but certainly befitting a former ruler of a country. While the act was the same now, Courfeyrac was certain that the people who had passed judgment wanted to show the rest of the citizens that this was not going to be a mere second rendition of The Terror or even so much as the past revolution. It was a small change, but it spoke volumes.

The king was the king no longer. He was now just a man. A man with his collar torn and his hair sheared.

Courfeyrac remembered all of the jokes he had made about the man, in the Musain, in class, to his friends and colleagues. He could remember each and every caricature he had drawn of the pear. He could remember shouting insults at him when no one had been nearby to hear. He remembered all the thoughts of unfairness this man had brought to the country along with those that served and enabled him.

Seeing him advancing up the steps to the scaffold did not make Courfeyrac regret all that he had done in mockery. He was a Republican through and through, and yet, he couldn't help feel pity for the man who looked so small from where he and Enjolras were standing. Small and frail.

Louis-Philippe held his head up high, but there were glimmers of tears, or was that just a trick of the eye?

The last words of the man were drowned out by the shouting of the crowd, and Enjolras' hand found Courfeyrac's. He squeezed it gently as the former king was latched onto the plank and pushed through. The wooden block came down against his neck.

"I don't like this," Courfeyrac said, his voice shaking a bit. He had joked about the man, for god's sake! And now that man was about to die.

Certainly they had all agreed and disagreed on what was to happen to the king once the Republic was restored. Exile had been the favorable option, but there were a few, Bahorel and Feuilly, who had said that the king would have to die. Enjolras once nodded his head in agreement, but there would be conditions to such a matter. There were always other options to consider.

"I know." Enjolras' voice was steady whereas Courfeyrac's was not, but a tear slipped through while Courfeyrac's eyes remained dry. Far too dry, he thought.

"What an ugly day." The skies were overcast with gray, as though a mist would be coming in shortly to cover the grounds. "What an ugly day to die."

"I know."

"Say something else, please!"

Enjolras looked at Courfeyrac then back at the scaffold. "You must watch it. We have seen others like us be taken in such a way. You must watch it because no one is sure whether or not this is the final victim of the revolution. Aside from that, he was a worthy foe, I guess you could say. We do not owe him tribute, but his death has always been a potential loss that we would have to come to terms with and learn to live with him on our conscience. You asked me before what I would prefer and I told you. I believe that the manner in which he conceded his throne should speak more about his character than his reign. He gave us France back and this is a horrendous way to repay him for that. No man truly deserves death."

A few people nearby heard Enjolras' words and a few turned to look at them. Courfeyrac stared them down. They hadn't been on the barricades that night, he wanted to say but held his tongue. The people had risen. The people had asked for this, but this felt wrong. This had more of a touch of spitting in the face of one's enemy once the enemy had fallen. This was meant as symbol, perhaps.

No, not perhaps. Most definitely. But it was a symbol of what, exactly? The hurt and suffering that had been pent up within every individual? Or, perhaps, a symbol to the bourgeois of what could await them should they move against the Republic? Death meant too much and Courfeyrac's chest ached in sympathy, but for who, he didn't know. He would have liked to think it would be for Louis-Philippe. For the king who just became a mere mortal man in front of them all.

Enjolras, apparently sensing Courfeyrac's discomfort, let go of Courfeyrac's hand to hold onto his shoulder. He wiped away the tears that spilled. "What hurts the most is that this is only mere necessity. Not for us, but for those who want this sort of measure. We haven't yet reached the ideal, Courfeyrac. Until we do, we must contend with these measures. This is a new Republic, our second, and we must guide it. We must focus our efforts as only we can, as only we've practiced. For far too long, there have been societies that drifted in and out of our populace. They are composed not so much of revolutionaries like you and I, but of people who speak of laws and rules and reforms. When the sword is put away, the pen is picked up. The pen ought to be mightier, which is why we must adapt ourselves accordingly. When the sword holds the strength, this is what comes about. Not anarchy, but a need for blood in order to right wrongs. But this is hardly righting anything."

Courfeyrac pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are telling me to pass the bar. I know. I will."

"No. I'm telling you that this could very well be our future."

Courfeyrac's hand dropped to his side as he looked sharply at Enjolras. "You don't think that we're in danger, do you? That's too far in advance, Enjolras!"

His friend merely looked back at the scaffold. "You've been giving me looks for awhile now, Courfeyrac. A few weeks ago, you told me that you feared me slipping away. I will do no such thing. I cannot afford to do that. I am simply telling you now that we must make a career for ourselves, and hold ourselves to an example. The likes of one will be unprecedented."

Courfeyrac hadn't heard Enjolras speak so much when it was not in the morning hours, but he couldn't deny either the wisdom or the fear within the words. Enjolras himself was not afraid, but there was a palpable threat in what he said. Courfeyrac had never questioned Enjolras before concerning the matter of how far ahead he saw the future. He knew that this wasn't mere trickery, a soothsayer's sort of modus operandi.

For one thing, Enjolras subsisted on hope and optimism. He did not so much dream of a better world as he saw one constantly outstretched before them all. He saw the paths to walk toward such an ideal. He saw roads outlaid with rules and ordinances on what it would take to get to such a point. He saw so much and shared what Courfeyrac sometimes thought of as a dream master's notions. When Enjolras spoke, he sometimes needed a translator. Particularly when he discussed it all in metaphorical ideas and concepts. Theories that hadn't been created. Mythological beasts treated as science. Lore and legends treated as history.

Courfeyrac thought it all very romantic.

But right now, Enjolras was speaking of a different future, one in which they would likely have to traverse in order to go to the ideal. Courfeyrac didn't need a translator or even Combeferre to discern what Enjolras was speaking. There was a dark pragmatism within his friend's statements, but Enjolras was still confident that they could make it out of any oncoming storm.

The optimism was good at winning Courfeyrac over. He understood, at that point, why he would cease fearing Enjolras fading away. The revolution was not yet over. It was only entering into its second wave of being. So he held his breath when the blade came down.

At the roaring of the crowd, Courfeyrac suddenly realized that the former king wouldn't be the final victim.

He suspected Enjolras was already well aware of this.

That night, Enjolras came to him and for the first time, they made love within Courfeyrac's bed. Courfeyrac felt himself to be far too eager at first, not in enthusiasm for the gift Enjolras was offering him, but because now, more than ever, he needed to feel alive. More than that, he needed reassurance that Enjolras was still breathing, was still moving, was still his.

He took his time, memorizing every inch of the perfectly sculpted body underneath his own, attributing every detail from the way Enjolras moved to the sounds he made to memory. He didn't lose any of his own romantic intentions throughout, for he knew how to please another, but Enjolras was different in his mind. He would forever be different as he cast another sort of light than the others he took to bed.

He was not frenzied, not after the clothing was discarded, and he was able to kiss every bit of the man outstretched before him.

Enjolras, for his part, was almost demanding in his need to get closer to Courfeyrac. There was as much urgency in his touches as there was in his lover's. And he lavished every inch of Courfeyrac's own body. He did not love Courfeyrac so much as he worshipped him with mouth and fingers. He learned as he went along, exulting in any bit of comfort and pleasure Courfeyrac could grant him and giving everything he had in return.

Like Courfeyrac, he wasn't frenzied, but he was more desperate. Courfeyrac thought it endearing until it became clear that Enjolras' stamina was a force to be reckoned with, and both men were sore the next day.

All the same, they made it again to morning classes. This time more determined than ever to pass the bar exam within the afternoon.

* * *

><p><strong>June 1834 - 13 Days Before Execution<strong>

Courfeyrac loved Bossuet dearly, but right now he felt like strangling him. A small folder sat in front of his friend as Bossuet took his time in going through each piece of paper. Either Bossuet had trouble reading quickly or hewas being very thorough. Courfeyrac hoped it was the latter, even though he knew he was being horribly unfair to the man. Bossuet was, after all, one of the partners of their firm, and while he tended to deal in medical malpractice suits, owing mostly to Joly, he had agreed to look over Courfeyrac's case files.

In fact, it was Bossuet who suggested he do so. Courfeyrac had the suspicion he looked like a pitiful sight at this point. Combeferre certainly wouldn't have been able to contact Lesgles so quickly to tell him about Courfeyrac. Aside from that, however, the case had to do with their other friend still rotting in prison. So of course Bossuet was more than willing to look through the entire process to try and finding something that could grant them an appeal. A fresh pair of eyes was what Courfeyrac wanted.

While Enjolras may not have been rotting so to speak, Courfeyrac's mind often drifted to him and he couldn't help but worry. Enjolras was still lithe, slender and fragile looking. The guards could make moves, take advances, and ignore the bribes Courfeyrac's money would go to.

These were ridiculous, paranoid thoughts, and in the cold light of day, Courfeyrac could see them for the illogical messes that they were. Even if the money wasn't enough, Enjolras was lethal even without a weapon of his own. His voice could inspire, which was part of the reason why he was in so much trouble, but it could also slice a man to ribbons. And when a man was distracted or put off-guard, Enjolras was fast enough to finish the job physically.

There were so many worst-case scenarios. Courfeyrac still felt as though he was living in his own.

Bossuet made a noise as he turned a page. This irritated Courfeyrac.

"Must you?"

"Hm?"

"That. That noise. That 'hm' you make. Every time you turn a page, you make that noise. I look up, but no, you're just putting the page down. I keep thinking you've found something. My hopes rise up. And then you put down the page, and I die a little inside. Can you please stop doing that?"

Bossuet didn't take Courfeyrac's words or tone to heart. "Of course. My mistake. I've never been called out on such a habit."

Courfeyrac just grunted as a dismissal of the conversation and Bossuet read on. "I'm not finding anything in here."

This only served to further gnaw on Courfeyrac's patience. "You've been looking them all over for nearly an hour now, and you've found nothing?"

Bossuet closed the file and leaned across his desk. "I hate to say this, but you're actually a very, very good lawyer. When you took up Enjolras' case, I thought that there would be a conflict of interest. You would make a mistake due to an emotional upheaval. Or you'd end up dramatizing the entire scene far more than needed. Perhaps your case would end up getting thrown out and the trial would begin anew. But you held yourself in check throughout. You went through each and every aspect of Enjolras' character. You brought up the right witnesses. You tore apart the other witnesses. Nothing slipped past you. You did everything right, and that is the main problem here."

"Combeferre said the same thing yesterday."

Bossuet leaned back. "In my opinion, which I would ordinarily charge for but of course, an exception is made for you, this is where we find ourselves trapped between a rock and a hard place. You performed the perfect trial. It's likely what they were expecting out of you. Let you cover all bases in an attempt to ensure no appeals could be filed. Then all they would have to do is either bribe or rig the jury, and you're stuck with a loss that can't be repealed."

"It's a game," Courfeyrac muttered. "And it galls me to know that I played into their hands. More than that, that this would cost such a life."

Bossuet clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "So let us not think of it anymore."

"And just ignore the days that go by until he's led to the guillotine?" Courfeyrac asked, his voice rising. Bossuet shook his head and made a gesture for Courfeyrac to quiet down.

"That isn't what I said at all. I'm saying that legal routes won't do you any good. You can bring these files to another lawyer. One that deals with trials. But the fact of the matter is that everyone knows his trial was rigged. It was famous. He's famous, as are you for defending him. And that's another problem. Other lawyers won't touch this. You're already looking down a prison sentence of your own if you push this too far."

"I don't fear prison."

"Yes, and the government doesn't fear you."

Courfeyrac swallowed a heavy lump in his throat. His gaze drifted down at the file. "So the legal avenue is closed to me."

"Yes."

"But you don't seem so downcast about it."

Bossuet smirked in a way that made Courfeyrac wish for his own to return. He'd been morose for so very long. "I'm not downcast. One avenue is closed. There are always other ways to go. Other less legal ways."

"You're proposing something."

"Something. Maybe something." Bossuet had a positively shrewd expression on his face. Most of the time, he tended to play by the rules of their firm. Enjolras had been a stickler for honesty and honor. They were men who had to hold themselves above as examples so other people could trust them and come to them were they in a bind. Bossuet accepted this with grave understanding. He also accepted the fact that the other side often didn't play by the rules.

Courfeyrac's dramatics were a gimmick in it of themselves, and he held himself as not only a defender of the truth, but certainly an actor who enjoyed playing it out so all could see. He worked best with visual learners, he once told Enjolras and Bossuet.

Enjolras had accepted Bossuet's strange flair for digging around certain protocols for the truth. So long as Bossuet kept himself clean and clear of suspicion. For Courfeyrac, he expected the oddity that often went on during the trials. Courfeyrac had thought Enjolras to be immune to such matters until Bossuet recommended he go have a look-see at one of Enjolras' trials.

Courfeyrac went and returned realizing that Enjolras' definition of ingratiating the public with the truth went just the same way as when Enjolras graced the populace with the matter of the Republic. He spoke brazenly. He spoke clearly. And he had a nasty habit of cutting down witnesses, and yet he was never wrong in his assessments. The trials that Enjolras undertook later on had to do more with Republicans brought into the justice system, which Enjolras knew he couldn't spare a moment of doubt working upon, and Courfeyrac had indulged him.

Yet right now, Courfeyrac knew that even if Enjolras or Bossuet had presided over Enjolras' trial instead of him, they still would have lost. It wasn't a blow to his ego, but to his sense of faith in justice.

This was not the Republic he had so adored and looked forward to for over half his life. This was a monstrosity in action, and right now Bossuet, a man who may have cut a few corners and yet always remained on the side of the just, was suggesting illegal matters.

There was only one illegal method that Courfeyrac could think of, and that would take time and preparation. Even should it succeed, the resolution would be far from at hand.

A jail break.

"You don't mean," he started.

Bossuet just grinned.

"Are you seriously suggesting we do this?"

"We, yes," Bossuet lowered his voice. There was no one else in the office and the secretary was kept two rooms down. If there was one thing all three lawyers enjoyed, it was their privacy, particularly when it came to their cases. The clients had to feel as though they could say whatever they liked with absolute trust. "You, myself, the rest of them. Though, granted, quite a few are fairly busy these days. And to ask them to risk their careers and lives is something that we probably shouldn't do. Back then on the barricades, we were students. We had all of our lives worth fighting for. I'm not saying Enjolras isn't worth this, but I am saying that priorities will be measured. Likely more than you want them to be."

To Courfeyrac, there was little more important than saving Enjolras, but he could understand the pressure that the others would be under when it came to this horrible choice. More was at stake here for their own lives, and it wasn't a Republic or a right to life that they were risking everything for this time around.

He thought about the repercussions on his walk home. He thought about what would need to occur, what he would have to do in order to break into the prison, to unlock Enjolras' door, to escort him out of their without being seen, and then to likely get him out of the country.

He would go along for that particular ride. The idea of leaving Enjolras alone outside of France entirely was abominable to him. And his wife? She would have to go along as well. Could she? Perhaps he could relocate her before he attempted the jail break. After they had realized Enjolras was missing, he would be the first suspect as his lawyer and friend who consistently visited him. She would have to be moved, and he would have to find a place for her quickly within another country. But which country? Germany was closest, but England would offer the most safety for them.

What would Enjolras even say to or about any of this? Would he agree? It would mean keeping him alive, which was something he seemed to be against. And yet, he had told Courfeyrac that if Courfeyrac thought he could manage somehow to keep him from the blade, then by all means.

By any means.

This also meant going against the Republic and what the people had voted for, but at the same time, he remembered the attempted prisoner exchange of Jehan. Jehan, who had faced down an execution squad. It had been Enjolras who told them to use the police spy to barter for Jehan's safety, thereby breaking the people's rule. So why not do the same again for Enjolras' life?

Courfeyrac paused in his trek and leaned against a wrought-iron gated fence. Like Enjolras, he felt caught between multiple hard places. On the one hand, he could adhere to what Enjolras wanted.

On the other hand, he couldn't.

On the other hand, planning for a prison break would mean giving up the task of going about this legally. It opened up a new can of worms, all with terrible consequences not just for himself, but for other people involved, and there would need to be other people. A prison break required manpower and resources. He would have to either recruit volunteers, and even then they were never without their price or their risks. A whisper in the wrong ear could mean the end of an endeavor that never got off the ground.

On the other hand, he also had friends. Friends who would do anything to see that one of their own was well and truly protected.

"Never thought I'd see you looking lost," came a familiar voice.

Courfeyrac looked up at the slim boy perched on the fence. The face had gotten older and the voice a little deeper, but there was no mistaking the childish and earnest gleam in the eyes.

"Gavroche. You're actually growing in stature. For a minute there, I thought you resembled a a person rather than an imp!" Despite how he was feeling, Courfeyrac grinned at the boy and moved aside so that Gavroche could jump down and join him.

There were opportunities for the gamin as well, mainly due to Combeferre's suggestions, but Gavroche didn't fully take them up on anyone's offer. He stayed around the firm in the beginning, sometimes checking in with the three lawyers and occasionally sending messages. But for the most part, Gavroche tended to pal around with Combeferre, oftentimes annoying the other man with his lack of a care for an education. Combeferre managed to find his way around this by teaching the boy how to read in his spare time.

"He'd be fine if it wasn't for having to stay in classes," he once told Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

"He resembles me in that way," Courfeyrac said. "All of my education has been primarily on the street."

Yet as Enjolras became more and more a specter in the eyes of the public, Gavroche had taken to hanging about him, oftentimes inquiring as to when the second revolution would be upon them all. Despite his age and stature, Gavroche clung onto his childhood, not wanting to let go of any of his nimbleness and carefree attitude. Les Amis always tended to provide for him anyway and a few would go out of their way to find small jobs for him to do.

"When we're living in a real Republic, I'll resemble a man more," Gavroche stated as he brushed off his pants.

"You think this isn't a real Republic? It looks real," Courfeyrac argued.

"Looks. But it isn't. Not in reality. Enjolras told me what the Republic would bring, and right now people are still going hungry. There's education reform but that's mainly Combeferre doing all the prodding. And there's all of you, but that's just it. It's just all of you and a few select groups. The people are still angry." Gavroche kicked a pebble down the street. "Why're we talking about this anyway? I asked about you."

"I'm not lost. I think I've found far more than my fair share of ideas today." The weight of the prison break held an appeal to Courfeyrac, which unsettled him. He wasn't so far gone as to forget the fun of digging up paving stones, of being chased by the gendarmes, or the thrill of being a rebel in the former monarchy. A prison break was right up his alley and were it not for his conscience and doubts, he would heartily embrace it.

That was the main problem. It was impulse moves like that, that tended to get him into the most trouble. Once he was excited about an idea, it festered within his mind. He couldn't shake it. He could only move forward until someone put a halt to it.

That someone was normally either Combeferre or Enjolras. One was indisposed and the other? Well, he was considering just going right to Combeferre's place and bringing the matter up with him.

"Anything to do with Enjolras? They have him breaking rocks?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Good and a shame. If they gave him a hammer, he'd probably be out of there in no time flat. Had to help my father out of prison at one point. Of course, my help wasn't fully requested, more like almost threatened, but I got the job done. He never thanked me for it, but he did leave me alone after that. I didn't need anything else from him."

Courfeyrac's head jerked up. "You aided in a prison break?"

Gavroche nodded. "It wasn't that much fun. Bit boring but what can you expect from a bunch of overweight, underpaid guards? Doubt they're in different straits now."

Courfeyrac's breathing was getting quicker. "What if I said I'm contemplating another prison break? Would you be willing to help be our guide?"

Gavroche grinned from ear to ear. "Have I ever said no to any of you? All you have to do is tell me the prison. I'll either find out the best routes inside and out, or I'll find someone I can trust who will."

Someone Gavroche could trusted was normally one of the other gamins in the area, and few of them were older than fifteen. All of them were likely known to the gendarmes as well. To consort with the children of the street was to consort with some of the more trustworthy sorts when doing anything illegal. Aside from that, Gavroche had proven himself to them all on the barricades. To not take him up on that offer would be considered rude.

What choice did Courfeyrac have?

At least, that's what he told himself. "Come with me to Combeferre's then. I intend to let him in on this to find out what he has to say. If he's still collecting his guns, I've a feeling we'll be needing them."


End file.
